Our Particular Devil
by Lono
Summary: His first wife died more than a year before I met him. Though she lies quiet in her grave, she still haunts us in a myriad of ways. (Rebecca AU)


**Disclaimer: ** _Sherlock _is the creation of property of others; _Rebecca_ was written by Daphne du Maurier and belongs to her estate. No infringement intended. Story and chapter titles are excerpted from or inspired by the novel.

**Note: **This is a prompt fill for the fantastic **dietplainlite**/**soyeahso**. She requested an adaptation of Daphne du Maurier's _Rebecca_. It's such a dark, exquisite story and I truly appreciate her giving me the opportunity to retell it in a new way using characters we love.

Just to serve as a warning for those unfamiliar with it, I am trying to model this fic after the book as closely as possible. That includes the POV, which is first person. Also, the reader never learns the second Mrs. De Winter's name, so just know that my omission of Molly's name throughout is intentional.

I hope everyone enjoys this first installment!

* * *

**Prologue**

* * *

Last night I dreamt I went to Briarvale again.

I knew I was dreaming, but still I rushed up the winding lane, eager to see its familiar façade. Hardly taking in the sight of overblown flowers and dying leaves that carpeted my path, I listened to my eager breaths and the cadence of my steps. I moved with the singular purpose of a person who knows that what she's seeing is not real, but only holds it that much more dearly as a consequence.

On and on, the ground stretched before me, without Briarvale in sight. The anticipation built, and the dread. But I wasn't unhappy.

After what could have been seconds or hours, the dense brambles and trees cleared, and there it was. It stretched up impressively before me, perhaps fortified and exaggerated by my recollection, perhaps diminished. But it seemed that time had not changed it significantly. Though its grey, stone walls were covered in woodbine and ivy, they still held the shape of my memory, of when he and I belonged there.

They say you can never go home again, and never was that truer than with Briarvale.

* * *

**Chapter One: A Past Still Too Close**

* * *

_Isle of Capri, 1935_

"No one is here this time of year. What a mistake," Ms. Constance Prince muttered to me as she hurried us through the hotel lobby.

It should be mentioned that more than one hundred guests likely occupied the hotel during our stay that autumn. When Ms. Prince said 'no one', what she really meant was 'no one of importance'. The commoner hardly counted.

Biting my lip, I tried not to laugh as a thought flitted into my mind that I was almost like a child's imaginary friend to her. I fell well within her definition of 'no one' and she made sure to remind me of it often, yet I still had the dubious pleasure of listening to her complaints and gossip.

By her definition of society, though, it was true. Even on an island renowned for its posh offerings, the latter months of the year could hardly be described as impetus for social gatherings. Capri had lost its summer bustle weeks before Ms. Prince and I disembarked from our ship onto its docks. Though a few oranges and lemons still dotted the trees that lined our funicular ride up the steep shoreline, they were sad, desiccated husks of their former selves. I wondered idly if that was how the haute crowd knew it was time to retreat. When their morning serving of juice didn't have quite the same, sweet bite, did they turn to their maids and valets and instruct them to start packing up the steamer trunks?

In my daydreaming, I nearly ran into Ms. Prince's back when she drew to a stop in the doorway of the breakfast room. She somehow managed to glare at my ill grace and turn to start whispering excitedly in the same breath.

"Do you see that man sitting at the back, corner table?" She tried to look indifferent, but her head kept craning to peer at the stranger over her shoulder.

My eyes flicked in the direction of her unsubtle stare to see that the gentleman in question had most certainly noted our spectacle. Looking away quickly, I made a show of looking out at the view of the Mediterranean Sea that the windows afforded. Under my breath, I replied, "I see him. Is he someone you know?"

The rolling of Ms. Prince's eyes told me exactly what she thought of my ignorance. "Of course I know him. It's Sherlock Holmes. Of Briarvale?" Though I recognized the name of the famous, English estate, my awareness ended there. At my clueless stare, she huffed. "He's worth millions. He's considered something of a recluse. Of course, who could blame him? His wife died last year and everyone says he's still inconsolable over it."

My eyes darted back to the austere man disinterestedly stirring the contents of a bone china cup. In spite of the ice-chip silver of his eyes and the alabaster of his skin, I could think of no way to describe him other than dark. It was like a miasma that loomed over him. What I couldn't tell was whether it was grief or the stare of my employer that had his face glowering so.

Just as my eyes swept over him again, his snapped back to our direction and his gaze locked with mine. I felt heat crawl up over the curve of my cheeks for my rudeness and I quickly turned back to Ms. Prince. "I believe the maître d'hôtel is wishing to seat us, Ms. Prince," I whispered.

She blithely turned to the man who'd sidled up beside her, an expectant look on his face. The waiter shot me a look of disdain for so rudely drawing attention to my employer's distraction; that the members of the Upper Class were never wrong was a lesson that was coming rather slowly to me, though my livelihood depended on realizing it.

Fortunately, Ms. Prince merely nodded graciously at him and allowed him to escort her to a table on the other side of the dining room from Mr. Holmes. The solicitous way with which our guide pulled out a chair for Ms. Prince before hurrying away only reinforced my gaucheness, and I wished desperately to be back in my room with a book, or down on the beach. Anywhere but there, really.

Quietly I sat, listening to Ms. Prince discuss the vagaries of Italian fashion. I nodded accommodatingly when she requested that I make an appointment for a dressmaker to visit her. She talked on and on, and I tried not to be too obvious in tracking the sun's trek across the sky.

As Ms. Prince segued into a critique of my wardrobe, I made sure to meet her eyes periodically and make interested noises. Beyond that, I tuned her out. It was nothing new, after all. Her voice blurred into a drone. She prided herself on her fashion sense and often regaled me with stories of woebegone individuals who'd still be wearing poor-quality fabrics, unflattering cuts, and garish colors were it not for her expertise. From what I could tell, the person who'd borne the brunt of her efforts was her own brother, Kenneth Prince. Of course Mr. Prince didn't voice any complaints to me, but the side effect of being the imaginary friend/paid companion was that one saw what was often intended to remain private.

The room filled with people eager to break their fasts. We outstayed several parties, but I couldn't help but notice that one person did not exit the room. The whole time there, I felt his presence, a piqued interest tickling the back of my neck.

When I could not stand it any longer, I dared look over to Mr. Holmes' table once more. His face had resumed its bored hauteur and we might have never imposed on his notice. He was an arresting man, I could feely acknowledge to myself. His face had a pronunciation to it that could be described as either odd or utterly handsome, and the watery sunlight coming through the breakfast room complimented him, casting shadows on the ridges and hollows of his cheeks.

Perhaps he felt my stare again, or maybe he had merely finished his breakfast, but Mr. Holmes rose from the table and looked at me as he skirted around the table. This time, along with an eyebrow quirking in challenge, the corner of his mouth kicked up in a smirk. I choked on a sip of tea, astounded by the lengths of my own rudeness. In the tradition of an embarrassed person caught doing something she oughtn't, I decided I didn't care for him; especially when the sound of an amused snort reached me from across the room.

"Quickly, return to our suite and get me my last letter from Kenneth; the one with the photograph of our father," Ms. Prince hissed at me. "It's in the roll top desk under the window." I groped for my water glass, desperate to ease the spasms in my throat as I turned back to face her. She appeared to be oblivious to the interaction that Mr. Holmes and I had just shared, though she was watching him sharply. "I am going to go speak to him."

Without thinking, I croaked, "I think Mr. Holmes' sense of dress is just fine. No need to advise him on it."

She stared at me stonily, and I stood quickly, the chair scraping obtrusively on the tile as I shoved it away with the backs of my knees. "Be back in a moment," I muttered.

Social climbing as a sport Ms. Prince had perfected in her youth. Never married, she whiled away her time going from party to party, always hungry to arrive at the next, stylish scene at just the right moment. She'd overshot her target on this trip, but it would appear that she was working to make amends to herself. If she wanted me to fetch something while she gazed with avarice at the retreating back of Sherlock Holmes, it could only mean she needed proof of connection and had him in her sights.

Feeling a low level of dread, I hurried back through the lobby. I kept my gaze down, lest I spot the man who was about to be party to any number of uncomfortable minutes at the hands of my employer.

The letter was exactly where Ms. Prince advertised it to be. I allowed myself a silent but vehement curse. I'd hoped it would miraculously be missing. That plan dashed, some illogical, desperate corner of my brain began devising ways to slow my return downstairs. I could fling myself from the window, but we were housed on the fifth floor of the hotel. I didn't care to die; I just wanted to delay things temporarily.

I dithered a few minutes longer, and then began the trip back down to the lobby. In a minor fit of rebellion, I did take the stairs instead of the lift. Trudging the entire way, I pictured the scene that awaited me below: Ms. Prince cornering Mr. Holmes in the sitting room, his eyes wild as he looked about desperately for any means of escape. First, she would tell him that she knew his mother or uncle or family dog, and then she'd slyly tell him that he really ought to incorporate more aubergine in his wardrobe. She'd round it out with her coup de grace: a push for an invitation to his home, Briarvale.

In the year that I'd been her companion, I had seen her tactics work with varying degrees of success. Something—a sardonic, knowing smirk—told me this would not be one of those successes.

When I reached the hotel foyer, I felt a second wind inspire me to move more quickly toward the sitting area. Perhaps I could mitigate the worst of it? I could already see that I was partially right on the setting. Mr. Holmes had retreated to a chair by a large fireplace. The intermittent rain that had fallen had the staff feeding the fire since our arrival. Though the chair nearest to his had originally been situated across a low, wide table, Ms. Prince had hauled it over so that she could sit alongside the rather reluctant-looking gentleman.

His face redolent with distaste, Mr. Holmes looked through furrowed, annoyed brows at Ms. Prince, who was chattering away obliviously. I reached the pair in time to hear her exclaim, "I was ever so pleased to see you were on holiday here. It gives us a chance to discuss the _on dit_ without worry of offending certain members of our class." I winced as she reached forward and hit Mr. Holmes on the arm in a familiar, chummy way, laughing loudly.

His lip curled. "I can't say I've ever set any store by gossip. Was there something in particular you needed, Ms. Prince?"

She sobered, attempting a wizened look. "No, gossip is a vile business, isn't it? It'll only drag you down. If I find myself getting too wrapped up in it, I try to spend my time in reflection and self-betterment whenever I can find a spare moment."

"Other obligations must keep you rather busy," Mr. Holmes suggested blandly.

I hadn't yet announced my arrival, but the hysterical giggle I suppressed at this must have made some sound, for his silvery eyes flicked to me before languidly returning to the older woman.

Ms. Prince slurped at a coffee as she nodded, missing the barbed insult. "Oh, yes. My diary is a full one. But I can't complain, when I get to claim the company of amiable people like you."

Granted, I had only known of Sherlock Holmes' existence for the past two-and-a-half hours by this point, but I felt positive that 'amiable' was not a word one could rightly use to describe the man. He looked like he agreed, if the vaguely queasy expression that overtook his face was any hint.

Finally noticing my presence, Ms. Prince offhandedly introduced me even as she held an imperious hand out for the letter currently clutched in my fingers. I didn't want to relinquish it, sorry to lose even that small, paper shield. Reluctantly, though, I handed it over. While she made a show of opening the letter, Mr. Holmes watched me impassively as I sank resignedly into a chair across the table from their tête-à-tête.

"I have a surprise for you, Mr. Holmes," Ms. Prince chortled.

"I doubt it." His tone was falsely bright and I stared furiously at my clasped fingers, warring between laughing at him and trying to remind myself that I should have some loyalty to my employer.

As ever, though, she missed the tone and standoffishness from the man to her left, and she thrust the letter's enclosed photograph at him. He stared at it for several beats before huffing an aggrieved breath and taking it from her. Glancing at the glossy paper, he murmured, "Film, not a photographic plate. But older. Your father, most likely. What of it?"

It astounded me that someone could be so rude without that rudeness' recipient noticing. Perhaps Ms. Prince was just a good actress, but the guileless way she carried on had me thinking she truly existed in a state of ignorant bliss. "Right you are, Mr. Holmes! Mr. Archibald Prince, Esquire. I believe he served with your father in the first Boer War. To think, we have such rich history linking us." He twitched at her absurdity, but for once refrained from commenting. Not that he would have had time, as she was blundering on. "My father made his way to Briarvale on more than one occasion and spoke at length of its beauty and warmth."

And so we'd arrived at the angling-for-an-invitation portion of our morning.

Instead of launching into raptures about his family seat, Mr. Holmes merely shrugged disinterestedly. "Perhaps."

"Do you entertain guests often, Mr. Holmes?" she simpered.

"Not if I can help it," was his blunt reply.

Ms. Prince blinked at him, finally coming to a slight epiphany. But as soon as the arrested realization hit her, she was shaking it off with a gay laugh. "Oh, you. What a card! I've heard that Briarvale played host to any number of grand, lavish parties until just last yea—" she cut off abruptly, but by that point it was far too late, and she had clearly realized it.

His eyes sharpened and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands under his chin, as he looked her over derisively. "Do you want to know why I stopped entertaining, Ms. Prince?" He spoke lowly, but the sting in his tone had me shrinking back against my chair. "I no longer invite prying eyes like yours onto my property, providing titillation and gossip fodder—yes, gossip—for your ilk. I don't relish being made a spectacle, and I don't invite it into my home."

Ms. Prince opened her mouth; to placate or defend herself, I couldn't say, for he continued on. "I particularly won't be inviting you, Ms. Prince. Your very demeanor speaks of the insecurity that has you foisting your insufferable personality on unwilling participants."

I started to object, but he was caught up in his own diatribe. "So insufferable that the only companion you can find is one you hire." He flicked a furious glare toward me before turning back to a beet-red Constance Prince. "A mouse who must have been in very dire straights, indeed, to take employment with you. Tell me," he addressed me for the first time, "were you destitute or only very nearly when this peahen took you under her wing and made you dependent on her snide grandiosity?"

"That's not—" I started.

"You clearly are above normal intelligence. The volume of ink stains speaks of an avid reader, and yet you are but a glorified servant, dragged around and unappreciated. You're too shy and accommodating to say anything. And she's made you into exactly what she wanted: a paid keeper who can't even speak for herself."

"Enough," I said, louder than I'd actually intended. A few passersby stopped and stared, but I ignored them as I stared down the horrible man in front of me. "Ms. Prince," I said, without turning to look at the flustered woman. "Why don't you go upstairs? You're not looking well."

It wasn't even a lie. She'd started sweating and had gone grey in the middle of Mr. Holmes' rant, and she wasn't looking at all soothed now that he'd stopped speaking Shakily, she nodded and rose, hurrying off without a backwards glance.

I am still not sure what stores of bravery had me staring him down, but I refused to blink. "Mr. Holmes, you had no right." He began to speak, but I shook my head. "No, you've said your piece. You've said such horrible things. I have yet to see evidence that you ever say anything but. However, believe me when I say that Ms. Prince may be rude and she may be ridiculous, but she, nor I, deserved your cruelty." Standing, I leaned across the low table and took the photograph still held between his index and middle fingers. "I believe you've accomplished what you set out to achieve, and I'll leave you to your pressing schedule of dressing down other hotel guests. Good day."

I hurried away, too angry to wait for the lift, only eager to escape his gaze, which I felt burning the back of my neck. As I pounded up the stairs, I couldn't tell if my hammering heartbeat was from anger or from exertion, but I had my suspicions as to which deserved the credit. Finally reaching the fifth floor, I stood outside our suite for several moments, trying to calm myself. Finally, with a deep breath, I let myself into Ms. Prince's and my suite of rooms.

Ensconced back in my tiny bedroom, I couldn't hear any noise from my employer. I knew she wouldn't accept any comfort from me, so I left her to herself. Picking up my book, I tried to focus on its pages; however, my mind was mostly given to the events of the morning. If I were lucky, I would never have to see Sherlock Holmes again. But would that be enough? I wondered if I'd be able to recover from the ignominy of the ordeal until Ms. Prince and I had left the hotel, left Capri, left Italy; preferably, until we'd left the entire continent. Perhaps autumn was a good time for an African safari? But how to convince my employer?

My thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the suite door. When Ms. Prince showed no inclination to answer the beckoning taps, I hurried across the lounge and pulled open the heavy wood. A young woman stood on the other side. Though I'd never fooled anyone into thinking I was a member of the elite, she still offered me a perfunctory curtsy as she held out a salver with a letter on it.

"I'm afraid Ms. Prince is indisposed at the moment. Is there a message I can pass on to—"

The maid shook her head, cutting me off. "This is for you, ma'am."

I blinked, confused. I knew very few people who would have any interest in corresponding with me, so I was at a loss as the nature of this letter. True, it was just a folded piece of paper with my name and room number scrawled on it, but that only served to confuse me more. Within the microcosm of our hotel, that number whittled down to zero.

I nodded my thanks to the maid and took the paper, frowning at the unfamiliar handwriting. Unfolding it, I didn't know what to expect, but I was taken aback by the words within.

_Forgive me._

_-Sherlock Holmes_

I stared at the scrawl for several moments before the maid clearing her throat tore my attention away. "Do you have any reply?" she asked. I shook my head and closed the door as she turned away.

I felt conflicted. Though pretty words could be bandied about with alacrity, I somehow doubted that Mr. Holmes was the sort to overuse them. I hardly knew him, but instinct told me he was sincere. What reason could he have to seek me out with an apology? I could think of no way that it would be self-serving. He'd made it clear he knew I had little to offer social climbers or fortune seekers.

The day wore on and I did not leave the room again.

* * *

Ms. Prince fell ill two days later. She refused to leave the suite in the time leading up to her sickness. Though her flagging energy had to have lent itself to her confinement, I knew she had been deeply hurt and offended by Sherlock Holmes. I tried to pass on his apology, but she would hear nothing of it, and within forty-eight hours she was so under the weather I decided not to press the issue. I spent the next three days tending to her, though she only deteriorated. A doctor was summoned, but he merely recommended rest and weak tea for her stomach complaints.

The suite became stifling, but I stayed close, an unwitting nursemaid. Although I had an avid interest in medicine and pathology, I was very much out of my element. When delirium and fever set in, Ms. Prince's doctor suggested a full-time nurse take over her care, and I was only too glad to agree.

Nearly seventy-two hours after I'd last stepped outside, I made my way downstairs, fastening my drab coat as I anticipated a brisk walk along the shore. I was so intent on the stiff buttons that I didn't notice the other person making his way down the stairs until I nearly ran headlong into him. When I realized whom I'd run into, I could only be glad I hadn't succeeded in breaking his legs or head.

He must have been leaving as well, for he wore a long, camel coat, driving cap, and gloves. He greeted me carefully, not quite meeting my eyes. "One your way out?" he asked casually. I nodded wordlessly, still torn between remaining angry and forgiving him. As I f he'd read my thoughts, he cleared his throat uneasily. "I trust you received my note?"

"Yes," I murmured, only more uncertain now that he actually wanted to discuss it.

"I was in earnest," he said in a rush. "I hope you know now that I regret it. I lost my temper needlessly."

Pulling on some light gloves, I frowned as I pushed my fingers into the designated sleeves. "I'm not the only one to whom you owe an apology, Mr. Holmes."

He nodded solemnly, if uncomfortably. "I will extend my apologies to Ms. Prince when she is adequately convalesced."

"How did you know she's ill?"

He might have started to roll his eyes, but he cut it short, so I didn't draw attention to it. Clearly, he operated on various levels of irascibility and I could only hope for the lowest on a good day. "You have the pallor of a person who's been inside too long, but clearly you haven't been ill yourself," he scoffed.

"Clearly," I parroted, dismayed.

"It would stand to reason that you've been tending to Ms. Prince, as I have not seen either of you at any meals since our last interaction." He clasped his own hands behind his back as we stepped down the final steps into the lobby. We came to a stop facing each other only somewhat awkwardly.

"Yes, she appears to have a severe stomach complaint. She's quite ill," I explained. He nodded. I nearly smirked when I noticed he couldn't quite manage any sympathetic noises on the unhappy news, but I sternly schooled my expression. "Where are you off to?" I asked him, not managing the breezy tone I'd hoped to affect.

"A drive around the island. I brought my automobile with me and have only had occasion to take it out twice since my arrival.

I managed not to get sucked into a flight of fancy imagining him driving through the crisp day, a breeze ruffling the neatly trimmed hair that still managed to curl over his ears. But I did allow myself the admission that he could make the sport of driving quite aesthetically pleasing.

When I realized that we'd stood there for nearly thirty seconds without speaking, I coughed delicately and offered him a small smile. "Well, I'd best not keep you. Enjoy your drive, Mr. Holmes."

"And you, your walk," he returned.

I nodded my thanks and made my way to the concierge, intent on leaving a message with the desk, lest Ms. Prince wonder where I'd gone.

Mr. Holmes' voice carried across the lobby, calling me by name and stopping my progress. I turned abruptly to see him standing in front of the door staring at me with an inscrutable expression. His haughty brow rose when our eyes finally met, but he didn't say anything else. Still, when he pushed the hotel's front door open (nearly whacking the doorman installed outside for just that purpose), I can't describe his look as anything other than expectant.

Sometimes I wonder what nerve I found that allowed me to do it. I'd always been such a shy, awkward thing and, with thanks to our few, short interactions, he knew it all too well; he'd exposed it with gusto. Though he'd apologized for his rudeness, it didn't negate his awareness of my diffidence.

At that moment, however, I did not spare my nerves any thought. Without a word, I turned and followed Sherlock Holmes out of the hotel and into his waiting car.

* * *

**...**


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